I’ve been napping which has been sucking me through and around multitude worlds. Like, I wake up and don’t know what time or day it is. I don’t know which side of the bed I’m on. And then I go back to sleep. Flashing in and out like this, trying to adjust to the new morning shift mentality.
Accept sleep loss forever.
I’m watching what’s going on on Twitter. Studying. Not to imitate but appropriate. Fascinated by the way some of the users can make little packages of the character count, collecting my favs.
An accident takes place outside my window. What does it mean?
I guess it’s time to take the dog out even though I could sleep longer.
Looking at my two pairs of shorts from afar, it’s difficult to remember which ones are my favorite. I end up choosing the ones with the longer legs, which is the correct choice.
Leashing the dog, I hear a noise in the hall. I sit back down at my computer, pretending to send another tweet. After five minutes, I go out, not running into any of my neighbors.
There’s a policeman asking somebody on the street who was involved in the accident. I pull Charlo past his usual pee spot because it’s right next to one of the cars.
Were you involved in the accident? asks the officer to the man in the car.
Do you need medical attention?
The phrase stress less home medical fee coverage burns into my mind.
Some days I’m everywhere. Some days I am nowhere. There is no food in the apartment. It’s 3 PM. I signed up to be on a television show about psychics.
I’m a twenty-eight year old, writer living in Brooklyn who recently lost his job and has a wife wanting to get pregnant.
That’s what I told them.
The pay is a hundred dollars.
My current theme song plays again as I’m stretching from sheets of salt.
It looks like a statue, I tell Piper, standing naked, hungry, afraid, panicking.
What would you do?
Everything being a learning experience, shrugging off the pressure and guilt, searching for some clothes within a made up bed.
I accidentally use Musette’s towel, thinking that it’s mine because it is mine, she is just using it because she didn’t have any clean ones when the one that she was using went dirty.
We’re dealing in an arena of energy consumption, I tell Grady.
Lilli… I say, but she is not here.
Grady, get me my tequila please.
It’s straight blanco. All of the reposado is gone.
This is nightmarish. I should be sleeping now.
Sleep is the closest thing I’ve got to death.
Death is the feast of the poor.
I take a drink.
On second thought, it’s not half bad.
I could get used to this.
There’s not enough bottles left for much getting used to, says Grady.
Smoke em while you’ve got em’s what I always say, remembering the bag of Drum in my desk drawer.
I wish I had a secret exit to go smoke from. A balcony would be nice. I wish I was in France. I felt like I could smoke in France. I did smoke there. In the apartment, out the window. Staring over the Parisian landscape. Lightning striking over the tops of apartments. Artists living in the building, doing nothing but art.
Let me be. Give me food. Somebody give me food. Who will give me a hundred a week? It’s a small fare but my wife would be happy. Who are the @ellomillionaires? Why couldn’t they love me? Support me from afar? You give me a hundred dollars a week and I’ll save your little site. It’s what I do. They call me the social network whisperer. Fugue State Press for short.
I wake up with a headache that creeps towards my stomach in the form of nausea. It might be all of the mobile tweet notifications I’m receiving or it might be a hangover from all of the tequila blanco that I drank last night. It’s later in the day than I want it to be. Two pm. I’m supposed to be getting on Musette’s schedule but I’m lagging behind, staying up late, unable to sleep,
I’m supposed to be having coffee but the stove is probably not on.
There is a job on Craigslist that I apply for. The application process involves calling businesses and setting up appointments. I can’t believe it. My actual phone? My actual number? I remind myself that I am an agent. These are cases. Assigned from Craig who might be Lestrade’s new name. Or the bringer of cases. You know though, Craigslist.
It takes me a while to build up the courage to make the call, and when I finally do, I give my entire actual name and my wife’s, telling the lady on the line that my wife has a bad back from being hit by a truck which is sort of true.
When did I become such a nervous person? I ask myself.
The appointment is scheduled for Thursday. The agent gives me the name of the person who will be coming to my place. I have given a false address and told the agent to have her representative look for a yellow house.
I had to tell her that I am a homeowner. It was part of the mission requirements.
This is the report I write:
The agent, H. was very friendly. She expressed sympathy towards my wife’s condition, whom I said had a bad back. She seemed to have difficulty comprehending my name and the spelling of my street address.
She had what I believe is an Indian accent.
I was told there is an open shelf regarding prices of bathtubs. And H. gave me information on some of the features specifically applicable to my wife’s condition, letting me know that each tub is customized to the individual.
She set a date for the appointment and gave me the name of the person that would be coming to do the consultation and after the call ended she called me back, multiple times as I did not answer on the first call. When I finally answered, H. told me that the date needed to shift because of scheduling conflicts.
After I filed my report I attempted to call the next number, but it did not work. It was for the installation of a home security system.
I told my representative that I am more than happy to do another call.
The time of my first call was twelve minutes and forty five seconds.